Tim Connor Hits Trouble (29 page)

The Henry-Howard drama had developed so rapidly over the day that it was not until well into the evening that they began fully to reflect on the bizarrely coincidental nature of events. For both Henry and Howard to go missing simultaneously without explanation and for entirely unconnected reasons was one chance in infinity. Henry’s behaviour was understandable because it was more or less in character. In his own words he had simply indulged an impulse ‘to
bugger off.’ Belatedly he decided he ought to tell someone what he was up to, unhelpfully, but again understandably, choosing Tim rather than his wife. Howard’s case was quite different. He would never intentionally stay out all night without Heather’s knowledge and agreement. He did so, only as a result of a careless mistake. It was not surprising that people connected the two disappearances and speculated against Henry. Attempting to mitigate Howard’s foolishness, Aisha recalled that some years previously a famous actor had got similarly stranded after wandering into a theatre ‘props’ room and falling asleep. By the time he woke up the room was locked and the theatre closed. Coincidence aside, as the evening wore on it was the lighter side of the whole affair that surfaced, not least the bumbling performance of Broome and his acolytes.

If possible, a five-star night got even more galactic when Rachel unexpectedly arrived. Aisha and Erica who were sitting next to each other made room for her and she sat between them. Tim was about to offer to buy her a drink but was beaten to it by the resurgent Henry. Surprisingly Rachel accepted. Even the unlikely things were going right: even the long-time bad things were coming good. It was as though the resolution of the Henry-Howard incident had catalysed a powerful and pervasive restorative energy. As the vibes rippled out they seemed to generate only positive feeling. Tim was caught in the flow. He looked across at the two beautiful women sat either side of Rachel. He thought he caught the shadow of a smile from Aisha – with a tinge of regret he remembered ‘in some other lifetime.’ As he glanced at Erica she mouthed something to him. He wasn’t certain but the words seemed to say: ‘Tim, do you love me?’ A shiver of excitement passed through him.
Trumpets sound and I hear thunder boom, every time that you walk in the room. You know I do
.

‘Tim, you’re dreaming. Wake up, and tell that villain Jones to get me some peanuts with my drink.’ It was Rachel,
secretly piqued at being by-passed as Tim’s gaze alternated between Aisha and Erica. Not that, as she reassured herself, he had a pig in a poke’s chance of getting anywhere near her.

‘No problem Rachel, if anybody has earned a few peanuts, it’s you. I’ll get them for you myself.’

As he waited for service at the bar, still revelling in the euphoria of Henry’s triumph, a single contrary thought crossed his mind.
That’s the mad genius sorted, how about sorting yourself out?

After the excitement of the Howard-Henry saga, routine kicked in again. Facing a mountain of scripts to assess, Tim had planned to spend the weekend working in Wash but unexpectedly Gina pressed him to come over to Peyton. She had something important to say and insisted on a face to face. Despite his efforts she refused to explain further, adding a shard of anxiety to his heavy mood. The thing he feared most was any attempt to reduce his access to Maria. He would fight that, although he had no reason to think that Gina intended this. Keen to keep her on side he agreed to ditch his plans and drive across country.

Determined to reach Peyton before Maria had gone to bed, Tim pushed the old Volvo to a decent lick on the M4. His mind wandered to the events of the last few days and he smiled at the thought of Henry's shenanigans. Against all odds, Henry had departed Wash University on an unexpected high. In Henry's own eyes his unscheduled farewell cameo was an unmitigated triumph. The incident had already been given prime place in his grand narrative
of Henry versus the plods, a finale in which he had bowed out as the undefeated victor, beaten down again and again but back on his feet to deliver a last round knock-out. This single event enabled him to reshape his life story into an unyielding struggle in which his diamond will at last triumphed. He now added to the tales of his fearless youth and effortless routings of Swankie, the definitive moment when the Vice Chancellor and his acolytes had been rumbled. Finally Henry the rebel had defeated ‘them', ‘the system', ‘it'. He conceded modestly that his victory was only one battle in a never-ending struggle. The war goes on: fight, fight and fight again, above all, never surrender. If you want proof that it's worth it he would say: ‘look at me.'

Tim grunted in acknowledgement of Henry, pleased for the old bruiser, appreciative even, but sceptical. Henry was no longer merely a legend until closing time, but his triumph was largely symbolic. True he now had a good story to tell but he had made little impact on ‘the real world' as defined by Broome and Swankie. ‘The more is the pity,' thought Tim. Henry appealed to Tim's streak of romanticism but to something more substantial as well: his sense of fairness. Instinctively, both of them threw in their lot with the oppressed majority and distrusted the power-seekers. There was nothing precious about this: it was more a gut than a brain thing, despite all their theorising about it. In their ‘big ideas' conversations they agreed that the democratic and humanistic post-war consensus established in the West was being slowly eroded by self-seeking elites. What was emerging in its place was a corporate-driven popular culture cloaked in a shallow and deceptive rhetoric of competitive individualism, a parody of true individualism that respects the rights and welfare of others. Increasingly people could see the sick selfishness of it all, but as yet there was no constituency big enough and willing to confront it head-on. Somehow the world had stumbled into a new age of greed, more resembling the spectacular inequalities of feudalism than modern social democracy.

Tim took in a deep breath: he had thirty or so years of his career ahead. There were many ways to fall short of aspiration. He would try to harness values to action more effectively than Henry had managed. Watching and listening to Henry had been a kind of education – in hanging onto ideals but equally in how not to achieve them. It was easy for him to criticise. It was a relief almost that as well as his commitment to ‘big ideas' he had more ordinary responsibilities – but demanding enough: a child and an aged mother, as well as his job. On top of all that, a lone campaign to change Western society might be a bit of a stretch! So how many others felt like him?

Realising that he was about to overshoot the turn-off for the M25, he quickly cut short his bout of pondering and shifted sharply across the lanes to make his exit. For a mid-Friday evening the M25 was unusually clear, and he skirted the north of London without any delays, arriving in good time to spend half an hour with Maria before her bed-time. She was now more at ease with his comings and goings. Their grand tour had sealed their re-bonding and she had begun to look forward to his visits and her trips to Wash. Once he had seen her into bed he returned to the living room, uncertain whether Gina wanted to raise her issue immediately or to wait until the morning. She gave him a warmer hug than usual and asked him if he would mind staying on for a few minutes so that they could talk. As he settled into an armchair she called to Rupert, who was in the kitchen asking him to make a pot of tea for the three of them. Tim sensed that this courtesy might be setting the stage for something less pleasant. Already tense, the thought of Rupert joining them ratcheted up his anxiety another notch. Rupert must have been on stand-by because he arrived almost instantly with tea and biscuits. Having poured the tea and offered Tim a biscuit he sat down in an armchair opposite him. Gina had settled herself on a large sofa between them looking self-consciously composed and purposeful. She did not waste time coming to the point.

‘Tim I wanted you to be the first to know: Rupert and I are going to get married later this summer. We thought of waiting a little longer but I'm thirty-six now and well, we'd like to start a family in the not too distant future. You're the first person that we've told. I thought you should be.'

She looked strained as she waited for Tim to react, but she knew there would be no histrionics. He was more likely to hide his feelings altogether.

‘Married?' He paused for a moment, numbed rather than surprised. ‘Congratulations,' he added dully, ignoring a flash flood of chaotic feelings. ‘I guess it's what you wanted.' It was the best he could do.

‘Yes it
is
what we both want.' Gina looked across at Rupert and smiled - a knife to Tim's heart. There was no doubt she was happy. Tim searched for a trace of regret in her face.
Stop kidding yourself
. Rupert returned Gina's smile with interest. Turning to Tim, he gave a not unsympathetic nod: the unspoken message was ‘sorry, mate, that's the way it goes.' Tim denied him the satisfaction of a response but he understood: ‘Nobody to blame but myself.'

‘Tim,' the kindness in Gina's voice felt like a blow, sharpening his feeling of loss. Kindness was no solace.

He wanted to walk out, but could not risk even that gesture. ‘What about Maria?' he asked.

Gina was quick to respond. ‘That's why we wanted to talk to you face to face: to reassure you that nothing needs to change between you and Maria. I know how hard you've worked at your relationship with her. And you've succeeded. That won't change as far as we're concerned. You could see more of her if you like. She's always talking about going to see Daddy now. Anyway it's up to you. Nothing will change from our side.'

Tim looked palely towards Gina, his emotions still contained: frustration and anger at himself rather than Gina; painfully confused that she was to have the second child he knew she wanted, envious of Rupert despite himself, but massively relieved at Gina's reassurance about his relationship
with Maria. He understood now that this was the turning point. In the end Gina had decided matters. Her decision would irrevocably change all their lives.

‘We're hoping you'll agree to a quick divorce.' Tim barely heard Rupert's voice as he continued to gaze at Gina.

‘Rupert, please, not now. We can talk about practicalities later,' interrupted Gina. She understood well enough how Tim was feeling. ‘Tim this news has come to you out of the blue. It's a big thing for you to take in all at once. You could sleep here tonight if you prefer? On the sofa bed in this room. Rupert's happy with that.'

‘Perfectly,' Rupert agreed, ‘although Tim might not want to hang around.'

Tim declined the offer but saw it as a good omen, a sign that Gina's disillusion with him and the related rise of Rupert would not lead to a complete communication breakdown. Gina seemed to have reassured Rupert to the point where he could accept that Tim had a permanent place in the scheme of things, albeit on the well fenced periphery.

Tim spent most of the next day with Maria, who had already been told that she was going to have a baby brother or sister. She was excited, but not yet at all concerned about the child's provenance. Tim was glad to pass on that issue. The questions would come soon enough and he knew that she would not rest until she was satisfied with the answers. But this was a different kind of day. Two fingers up to fate, he had decided that they would enjoy themselves. After kicking a football around together for a few minutes he took her along to the tennis club that he had been a member of in his Peyton days. He was pleased to get a friendly welcome and find a free court. Looking at her across the tennis court he suddenly noticed that Maria had recently put on a growth spurt. She had always been strongly made, but she was now also quite tall for her age. To his delight she showed an instant aptitude for the game. As long as he fed her the ball at an appropriate speed and height she was able to return it well, on both the backhand and forehand sides occasionally
knocking a shot past him. With a lighter racket she was even able to hit one or two half-decent serves – almost a sign of prodigy in a six-year old beginner. On the strength of her performance Tim renewed his lapsed club membership and promised Maria that he would coach her on a monthly basis until she could play the game better than him.

After showering together they ate a healthy lunch at the club followed by a less healthy ice cream as they walked into town. They spent the afternoon at a fun fair that had pitched down locally and then indulged in a little light shopping. It was only later, on his return journey to Wash well into dusk that Tim realised the subtext of what he had been up to. He was attempting to show himself such a great dad that his beloved daughter would lock onto him forever. It had been hard work, but they had both enjoyed it. And, as he admitted to himself, it showed how much of a dad he could be when the stakes were high. If only Maria didn't look quite so much like her mother.
When you think you've lost everything, you can still lose a little more
. A lot more, that is.

After returning Maria to Gina, Tim decided to take a walk before driving back. It was not so much that he needed to think about Gina's decision to marry Rupert. Her recent announcement really only told him what, in his heart he already knew. He hated it, but he would have to live with it. Confirmation of their break-up was at least one clear marker in a time of restlessness and uncertain transition. Never mind Henry's ups and downs, his own life was in flux. Professionally he thought his first year at Wash had gone well. Whether the hierarchy thought the same was another thing. He had got on the wrong side of Swankie and no doubt Broome, but that was par for the course, at least, his course. Despite himself, he always somehow backed into the attention of management but he should be ok. No, it was his personal life that lacked a stable centre other than his own powerful and cussed sense of self. He was missing the steady affection of a committed relationship
and, if he dare admit it, the love. He was secure in his mother's love, of course. He had yet to meet or hear of a mother that did not love her son. And he had consolidated his re-bonding with his daughter. Their time together over Easter and since had gone well. But Gina, as he had known her, was gone.

Erica? If he was honest with himself his relationship with Erica had been unsettling him for some weeks. It was stalled at half-in/half-out. He was convinced that they were more than just a pair of hedonists, but there was no developing sense of secure belonging, just fleeting moments of reaching out for each other. Of course Erica had Rachel, or, he assumed she had. Perhaps he really was on his own.

Stability! Security! He surprised himself. He was slightly embarrassed. He rarely thought much about security, or not for long. In his twenties and early thirties he had thrived on excitement and risk. With Gina he happened upon stability and security without conscious effort or even much awareness that he'd found them. Until their destabilising crises he had never given much thought to ontological security. But he was thinking about it now. Was he insecure? It was a novel thought. Or lonely? An equally disconcerting notion.

Lost in himself he had wandered into an unfamiliar part of the town. It was clearly not a wealthy area, the terraced houses built of plain but functional London brick reminded him of the old working class houses of the north. A small church caught his attention, the kind of place he would normally not give a second glance to, if he registered it at all. It was a squat building with mottled walls and a small, white stone steeple with a plain iron cross. Two narrow windows and a dark wooden door with a black painted handle and hinges punctuated its front wall. It bore little resemblance to the big, ornate Catholic churches of his childhood, other than both offered space for reflection.

On impulse, he reached out and grasped the door handle. The door was shut solid.

He turned away, more disappointed than he could explain.

As he walked on he heard the crash of a bolt and the heavy sound of the door being dragged open.

He swung round.

‘What can I do for you? Are you looking for something?' It was a middle aged, informally dressed man whose profession was only apparent from the clerical collar he was wearing.

The man's friendly demeanour encouraged Tim to talk.'

‘I don't know that you can do much for me. On a whim, I was going to pop into your church. I think I might have been about to reflect for a few minutes. Praying is not really my thing.'

‘Perhaps not but it is mine. Come in for a moment.'

‘I don't want to take up your time.'

‘No problem, I was about to take a few minutes break from composing my next talk.'

Tim followed the pastor through the simply laid-out church, into what looked like a small assembly room. An oval table with perhaps a dozen or so chairs tucked in around it dominated the room. There was a smaller table at the far end with a kettle and some crockery on it.